Coldest Days In The World
by babybluecas
Summary: Winter, snow, crackling fire, and hot chocolate; a perfect setting for Dean and Cas - more or less domestic, more or less together. A collection of drabbles.
1. Let It Snow

Dean pours the rest of coffee into the cup and puts the jug back. His eyes flick to the window, to the parking lot bathed in yellow light. He halts mid-move. There's a person standing outside, a few yards away. Their shape's dark, stiff and familiar. Black sweater, dark hair, head raised to the night sky.

"The hell?"

He sets the cup down with a clank and reaches for the knob. The ice-cold breath of air seeps in with a spatter of the white flakes.

"Cas!" he calls out to the man, still unmoving in the middle of the parking lot. "Get inside!"

A sweeping wave of Dean's hand emphasizes his words, in case Cas doesn't hear him. But Cas hears him, his eyes dart to Dean's face. He doesn't so much as shifts his weight, instead, he just waves back – lifted palm, a flick of a wrist, then his gaze turns heavenwards once more.

Well, that's not weird, at all, Dean thinks, fetching his jacket. Ignoring Sam's question mumbled from over the books, he shoots outside.

He rolls in his shoulders, the jacket hanging off his forearm. It's gotten fucking cold since they got back from the interview a good few hours ago, no wonder it started to snow. Looks like it's time to break out the coats.

"Why aren't you in your room?" he asks before he even gets to him.

There's a layer of white dawn growing on his sweater. Dean brushes it off, before throwing the jacket around his shoulders.

"It's snowing," Cas replies, wrapping it tight around his body.

"Thank you, Mister Obvious," Dean mocks. "That's why you gotta get inside, 'less you wanna get sick?"

"I found the right spell and was going to your room."

Dean looks across the distance to their adjacent motel rooms.

"I'm sure this was the most direct route you could have taken."

"It's the first snowfall of this winter. It seems like a significant event."

So it's one of those freshly fallen Cas versus human stuff things, right.

"Yeah, if you're a kid. Or from California," Dean says amused. He lifts his eyes to the snowflakes swirling in the light from the streetlamp. "It's pretty," he admits with a shrug.

"It is." Cas lifts a palm to catch a few flakes. Dean expects him to start waxing poetic about snow and winter and the world's metamorphosis. But Cas just scrunches his nose at the water covering his skin. "But it's also cold and wet and melts right away."

Dean chuckles.

"Yeah, that's why it's better to watch it through the window. At least until we get you a coat. And a hat," he adds, reaching out to his hair, fingers brushing out the snow. "Let's go, I'll make you some hot tea."

"The orange and cinnamon one? I think it's my favorite so far."

Dean pats Cas's back and steers him toward the room.

"Whichever you want," he mutters, hardly keeping his teeth from chattering. He might need to get that tea for himself too. "So, the spell, does it involve fire?"


	2. Under the Blankets

Dean returns from his mission with a small pile of blankets in his hands. He drops it on the couch next to the giant bundle of sweaters and comforters that obscure Cas so well there isn't much of him peeking out, other than eyes and the tip of his nose. And his palm that sneaks out and starts creeping towards Dean's blankets.

"Don't you dare!" Dean barks and shifts the pile out of Cas's reach. "These are mine."

A long, muffled whine comes out of the cocoon and the palm pulls back into the warmth inside it.

"That's better," Dean grumbles, coating his coat-clad shoulders with the thickest of the blankets. "These are literally the last blankets in the Bunker," he explains.

He can't blame him for trying to hoard even more than he's already got: it's been this cold inside since five in the morning and they're all tired and frozen to the bone because the Bunker's central heating, however it worked, decided to take a holiday on what appears to be the coldest day in Kansas in fifty years or so.

Of course, Cas is taking it the worst. He hasn't yet gotten used to temperature fluctuation within a bearable for humans range and he has to deal with this. Inside his wrappings, he's still quivering slightly, but at least the chattering of his teeth stopped around the fifth layer.

Dean turns to Sam expectantly. "That is, unless there's a secret blanket chamber hidden somewhere."

Cas mutters something that sounds like a "yes, please," as he wraps the covers even tighter around him. Dean begins to worry a little about his ability to breathe.

"Let's hope it's not next to the secret boiler room," Sam offers, slapping the yellowed blueprints aside, "because that one is non-existent." He pushes fingers through his hair and readjusts his blanket.

"Come on, that's impossible!" Dean snaps, reaching for the blueprints to study them himself. "Something had to keep this place warm 'til now."

Sam shrugs. "A spell?"

Dean rolls his eyes and snarks, "And it what, froze over?"

"Maybe it ran out of mojo," Sam shoots back at him. "How should I know?"

"Yeah, maybe it got tired of your fa–"

"Can we focus on solving the problem?" Cas cuts in, like he's not the one here who has done absolutely nothing to find a solution so far.

Dean turns to him, arms wide. "You got any suggestions, I'm listening."

Cas fixes him with a glare. "We could start a bonfire," he says, matter-of-factly.

Right, bonfire, how did they not think of it, Dean sarcs in his head and aloud he asks, "With what?"

The former angel shoots a glance towards the library. "With the books," he deadpans.

Or maybe he's deathly serious. Dean doesn't plan to check. He rips the blanket off his shoulders and slams it on the couch.

"Alright," he begins, unbuttoning his coat, "we're gonna do this the old fashioned way. Strip."

Cas squints at him, not moving an inch. "Burning our clothes will be unwise."

Dean shakes his head, dropping his sweater and shoes. That's as far as he'll go. "Trust me."

Distraught, Cas slowly untangles himself from his cocoon and Dean wishes he could do it a little faster; the cold seeps in through two measly layers of shirts, burns his skin and muscles. Behind Dean's back, Sam blurts out something about further research and nearly sprints to the library.

At last, the last of Cas's three sweaters is off and the blankets are spread around him like a fort, inviting.

"Now what?" Cas asks in a long-suffering tone.

"Now–" Dean drifts off as his eyes slide down Cas's body, his arms wrapped around his knees. Dean bites his lip, then shrugs. "Now, we get warm."

Before Cas can ask anything more, Dean slips between him and the blankets, their sides pressed tightly. For warmth, of course. Dean gets even so bold as to slip his feet between Cas's. Feet are always the coldest, after all.

Cas doesn't protest, doesn't even move, when Dean begins to close the cocoon around them both to keep their shared warmth inside.

"No better heater than a living body, right?" He nudges Cas with a shoulder, as he tries to figure out where to put his damn arm. He knows where it'd fit well, but that'd be just too much. At least until the night, when it gets even colder.

Cas takes some time to relax beside him, and so does Dean. But as soon as their combined body heat envelopes them like a dreamy cloud, they ease into each other, faces leaning closer.

"Electrical," Cas whispers, breaking the sleepy silence.

"Huh?" Dean mutters, confused.

"Electrical heater is a better heater than a human body," Cas explains with a soft smile.

Dean chuckles. "It is," he agrees and lets his head rest against Cas's. "But I'll take what I can get."


	3. Overabundance of Socks

Grunting coming from Cas's room makes Dean stop in his tracks. He turns on his heel and creeps on his tiptoes to the door. It's open wide, presenting its brightly lit inside, Cas sitting alone on the bed. Fully clothed and all, thank fuck.

Actually, he's more than fully clothed. Much, much more. Dean slips into the doorway, arms crossed, no longer worried the guy will notice him. He's too busy trying to force what must be the fifth or sixth sock on his left foot.

There are black hems of trousers coming out of his jeans and at least two different colors of plaid collars peaking out from beneath three layers of wool and Dean doesn't doubt there is a number of invisible to him layers in there as well.

Cas grunts again as he gives the sock a strong yank, but instead of giving in, the fabric slips out from between his fingers and the force sends his palms plunging right into his own jaw. A mixture of a growl and whine escapes his mouth.

Dean bites down a chuckle. "Last time I checked the heating was working."

Cas doesn't take eyes off the sock sadly hanging off his toes. "Inside—yes," he says, resuming his mission. "Outside it's still frigid."

"Yeah, that's why we haven't gone out in over a week," Dean agrees. "So what exactly is it you're planning?"

"I'm going out," he replies, to which Dean rolls his eyes. "To a store."

He finally manages to pull the sock on, he swings his legs back and forth in a tiny, triumphant dance.

Dean's eyebrows snap together. "We're stocked up on everything."

Cas jumps off the bed and grabs his coat.

"We're out of tea," he informs Dean as he passes by him and into the corridor.

"Just this morning I saw at least twenty boxes in the cupboard," Dean says, following him to the stairs. "They can't all be empty."

"They're not, but the pear and honey one is all gone."

Dean lifts his eyebrows. "You sure pear and honey is worth walking out into that snow hell outside? What happened to the low temperature intolerance?"

"It's worth it," Cas replies with confidence.

"If you say so." Dean shrugs. "Or I could just make hot chocolate."

"No, thank you," Cas says, reaching out for his boots at the bottom of the stairs.

"Okay. Tell me, though, where are you gonna get boots this size?" Dean smirks, pointing to the thick wrapping on his feet.

Cas glances to his feet then back to the boot in his palm, distress blooming on his face.

He ends up peeling off two pairs of socks before he manages to squeeze his feet into the boots, but, at last, he succeeds and starts climbing the stairs, slowly, movements restricted by all of the layers.

"Good luck!" Dean bellows after him before the door shuts close.

Dean shakes his head and sinks in the chair. Gotta admire the bravery, Dean isn't peaking a tip of his nose outside until the world chills with the whole The Day After Tomorrow gig.

He leans back and opens a book but before he can get through the first page, the door swings open and closes with a thump. At the top of the stairs appears a figure that looks more like a snowman than Cas.

"That was quick, Frosty" Dean teases, as Cas tries to shake off the snow covering nearly every inch of his body.

Cas blurts out some words through the chatter of his teeth, but all Dean gets is, "Honey?"

Dean can't hold back a small smile. "What did you say, uh—sugar?"

Cas narrows eyes at him from over the railing. "I asked if hot chocolate tastes good with honey."

Hot blush creeps up Dean's cheeks. He tries to cover the embarrassment with a chuckle.

"Probably," he says, getting up. "Let's find out. Catch me in the kitchen." He begins to walk out but then he turns and jerks his fingers at descending Cas, black coat turned all white, hair wet from thawing snow, a few inches of soon-to-be pulp and puddles. "No snow allowed," he barks and leaves Cas to it.

There's a sound of defeated stomping of Cas's boots carrying behind him, then grunting as the guy wrestles the boots off.

A long, distraught wail makes Dean pause.

"Dude, you alright?" he calls over his shoulder.

"I wet my socks," Cas whines. "All of them!"

* * *

Accidentally inspired by a comic by sketchydean


	4. Pick Up The (Snow)Fight

Snow crunches underneath the soles of Dean's boots as he treads through its thick layer. Beside him, Cas marches, lifting his knees nearly up to his waist. His steps are careful and calculated, as if he would melt if the frozen water so much as licked the hems of his jeans.

"You could just tuck them into the boots," Dean offers, pointing to his own ankles.

Whatever's visible of Cas's face between the hat and the scarf wrinkles in repulsion.

"The folds of all the excessive fabric are very uncomfortable."

"So you'd rather walk like this all the way?"

Cas doesn't answer, he just thrusts his fists deeper into the pockets of his coat and picks up his pace to prove Dean he can keep walking like that just fine.

Dean shakes his head, eyes turned to heavens. He quickly falls a few steps behind His Silliness. Instead of catching up to him, though, Dean crouches—to tie his shoelaces, of course. That's the official version, at least, in case Cas turns around to check up on him.

But he doesn't turn. Stubbornly he pushes forward across the white park, meandering among the low branches and bushes, while Dean makes the snowballs. Two, three—should be enough. Years of practice in making them already give Dean too much advantage.

Cas is a dozen or so yards away by the time Dean's ready—perfect. He grabs the first snowball, takes a swing, sets aim between Cas's shoulder blades. He fires, without a warning. Bullse–

"Dean!"

Cas swings around. One arm raised in self-defense, the other frantically searching Dean—to drag him behind, to protect with his body—before his eyes can lock on him, safe and sound.

Oops.

"Cas, Cas, it was me!" Dean calls, waving to him with his armed palm.

Cas's hands drop, shoulders relax. Before he can send Dean a scolding look or ask what the fuck was he thinking, another snowball splashes on his chest, its remains cling to the fabric.

"Could you stop that now?"

"Nope," Dean replies and throws the last ball.

Cas growls. "If you wanted to check my reflexes, you already did that."

"Ain't everything training," Dean informs him, bending down to scoop up more snow. "This is fun."

The next hit splatters snow across Cas's face.

"How is this fun?" he asks through his teeth, brushing the snow off.

"It just is, Cas." Dean grins. "Try it!"

Cas looks down on the snow around his feet, covering his boots and wetting the hems of his pants. Instead of reaching down to gather weapons, though, he turns his back to Dean and resumes walking.

"Come on, Cas!" Dean calls after him, shaping a ball in his palms, but ends up dropping it before he catches up to him. "Party pooper."

"I just don't see how being hit with freezing pulp is fun," Cas grumbles.

"It is—when you fight back."

Cas just gives out a sigh and doesn't say a word. They don't make more than a few steps when a freezing mass smashes into Dean's face, forces his eyes shut.

Beside him, Cas chuckles. "You were right, it is fun."

Dean wipes the snow off his face with his sleeve. He scoops a handful of the white down off the nearest bush.

"Oh, it's on!"


	5. Winter and Glasses Don't Mix

Winter and glasses don't mix. Unfortunately, it seems no one informed Cas's ophthalmologist about it and she remains convinced that glasses and winter do, in fact, mix. More than that, in Cas's case, they have to—unless he wants his sight to degrade even further than it already has due to two decades of neglect.

And so there he is now, freezing his nose off on the steel frames. He should have listened to Anna when she recommended the thick, plastic ones. They just didn't seem very practical at the time, and now that's just another regret.

At least, it stopped snowing.

The bright side of wearing glasses, of course—winter or not—is that Cas can now read the bus timetable without having to, figuratively, press his nose to it. He can even see the number of the incoming bus from the very crossroads and consequently spare himself the guessing and getting to the door last.

He really should have gotten glasses sooner.

Cas gathers his bags off the bench and moves towards the middle entrance. As soon as the door opens he steps into the warmth of the crowded vehicle. The puff of heated air envelops his face and—

The world goes white.

All of it.

Well, almost all of it; there are still colors and movement on the periphery of his vision. The entire center field is obscured by dense, white fog.

He stops in his tracks, shifts all heavy bags into one hand to free the other but the incoming passengers keep pushing him forward. Blinded, he attempts to move toward the rear end of the bus without stumbling. There's too much hustle to try wiping the steam off the glasses now; with half a dozen shoulders pressing on him from all sides, he can't even lift the freed hand.

The jam loosens, slightly, when the doors close and Cas manages to find a little safe footing. He reaches to the glasses but the tips of his fingers can barely brush the frames when the bus starts and the yank sends Cas tumbling forward.

He shoots his free hand up in a futile attempt to grab a strap and collides into someone's chest. A strong scent of cologne fills him up as his nose sinks into the man's collar. An arm wraps around Cas on instinct. The man stills them both easily.

"Got you," a low voice purrs above his ear.

A hot blush creeps up Cas's cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, trying to pull away.

The steam covering his glasses begins to recede around the edges, but still not enough to make out the face in front of him.

"S'fine," the man says, loosening his hold, but doesn't let go entirely until Cas finds the strap over his head. "Let me help ya, buddy."

He gently pulls the glasses off Cas's nose before Cas can protest. He starts wiping them with a handkerchief in his other hand, elbow locked around a pole. His eyes are trained on his own working fingers, the corners of his lips are raised in a tiny smirk. He must be around Cas's age, maybe a couple years younger, and, Dear God, even without the glasses Cas can tell he's beautiful.

And then, with a cheerful "there you go," the man puts the clear glasses back on Cas's nose and the face, the beautiful, bright face comes into focus. Three day's stubble surrounding his pink lips that got a little chapped from cold, the slight crook in the middle of his nose, like it got broken at some point and never mended right, the first marks of crow's feet around his eyes that somehow only make him look younger.

And freckles. So many golden freckles spattered all over his face. Probably as many as Cas could count stars in the night sky over the town.

Cas's eyes grow wide and he can't take them off the man's face. Seconds pass and he's acutely aware he's staring, but there's nothing he can do about it while he's putting all of his will into keeping his mouth closed.

"What? Did I leave a smudge?" the man asks, at last, eyebrows knitted, smirk still playing on his lips.

"No, it's perfect," Cas replies quickly. Embarrassment succeeds at forcing him to look away. "Thank you."

He wishes he could turn around, but his bags trapped between other passengers' legs make it impossible. So he stands as he was, fixing his eyes on the zipper of the man's jacket. He forbids himself to ever lift them any higher, even when the guy doesn't look at him.

But the guy doesn't take his eyes off him, anyway.

"These seem like a hazard," he says and Cas has no choice but to look up at him, confused. "Glasses," he clarifies.

"Yes, apparently, they are," Cas replies, then the silence between them falls again. It doesn't feel right, like maybe Cas should add something more. So he does. "It's the first day I have them," he explains, "well, a second day to be precise, but the first time outside."

"Good timing," the man cuts off his rambling, with a grin that subdues at once and he clears his throat and glances away.

The change is striking. The man has been nothing but self-confidence so far. Now he seems… shy.

Cas tilts his head to the side, unsure what to say or what he meant by "good timing." He goes with the safest interpretation.

"Yeah, the doctor said I've really ruined my sight–" he begins, but is interrupted, again, before sharing his entire life story.

"No, that's not what I– I meant–" The man pauses. A tip of his tongue slips out to slide along his lower lip. Before Cas can warn him not to lick his lips when it's this cold out, the man leans down and in a hushed tone Cas can barely hear among the white noise, he says, "They look great on you."

"Oh," is all Cas manages to say.

Those must be the last words he expected to hear from a complete stranger he's just smashed into. Let alone one as handsome as the man. Cas casts his eyes down, heat's back in his cheeks, and he can only hope he's not too red to be unable to wave it off as an effect of the temperature fluctuations.

"That's good to know," Cas adds, at last, and smiles to give himself more courage for the next words. "I'm Cas."

"Cas?" the man repeats to make sure. "Dean." He nods in lieu of a handshake.

"Nice to meet you, Dean," Cas mutters a little awkwardly, but he's not sure Dean heard, with his attention shifted to the window.

The bus begins to pull over when Dean's eyes return to his. Cas knows what it means and he doesn't like it. He doesn't know why, though, whether it's the smile or all of the freckles, or Dean's friendliness but Cas doesn't want to lose sight of him. Should he ask for the number? Wouldn't that be too forward? How about Facebook, is that what people do?

Cas doesn't end up asking for either; as soon as the bus comes to a halt, the swarm of people starts rolling towards the exits, pushing past them.

"Sorry, it's been nice but I'm hopping out here," Dean tells Cas, before letting the crowd pull him to the back door.

Cas nods and watches Dean's back move away. He gives out a sigh. So much for that acquaintance, he thinks, looking for a seat. The bus is suddenly nearly empty now and the doors wait open for the incoming passengers to spill in.

"Hey, Cas!" a voice calls from the back.

Cas's head shoots up. Dean's face is peeking in from behind the door wing.

"See you around, yeah?" Dean asks.

Cas can't hold back a beam. "See you around!"


End file.
